Jack
BELOW IN DOYLE’S. THE EVENING runs away from me.
At last, a decent way to pass my time. Half the parish arrives down at the pub on Saturday nights.
Young people, old people, married and single, with company and without.
Everyone is here, the air thick with bodies, with laughter and smoke.
The normal tide of melancholy that comes to pull me away in the evenings has not been able to find me.
The small glints of happiness that have been so scattered seem to all be coming at once, shining all around me.
I feel a part of the town suddenly; everybody knows my name.
For the first time in a long time, life isn’t galloping on ahead of me.
I can keep up with the pace of things. It feels good.
I finally introduced myself to our landlord, the doctor. I served him two pints of Beamish and a bottle of orange. He’s sound enough; I can’t see why Tom is so spooked by him. Imagine, I might never have met the man if I didn’t take this job. I feel lucky, I do.
Teresa asks, brushing past me. Working with her isn’t what I expected it would be; her long looks, the suggestive sucking of sweets and the smoke of her cigarettes settling in under the collar of my shirt.
Rather, she has taken charge. Calling out orders, not taking it easy on me, paying the customers a mile more attention than she pays me.
She talks to the locals as though she invented them.
Seeing this new side to her makes me want to show her all the sides to me.
I do as I’m asked. I take the bin out the back, and wonder who will put Peggy to bed tonight, and how well she will sleep without me.
Looking out onto the lonely street, I let out a breath, cold and white.
And I realise how far I have come. I didn’t expect to see you in the empty street, I didn’t want to.
Isn’t that funny? All this time, I’ve been waiting for you to appear in empty spaces.
Lately, I’ve found that I’m alright with emptiness.
Come here to me, darling, if you can call down, then you should.
Not so that I can see you, but so that you can see how well I’m doing without you. I think you’d be proud of me.
‘Come on, dosser!’
Teresa calls from behind me. A smile revealing her bottom teeth, her hand reaching out for me. Beckoning me back in. Closer to her. The light of the pub snuffed out as the back door closes behind her. The laughter inside, dampened.
The quiet of the night.
Teresa before me. Shrouded in the amber glow of the stained glass of the door. Trembling stars, heavy moon. Softly, she smiles. Look at how far I have come.
A surge of emotion, a gratitude for being alive, a desire to feel her, all come together to pull me nearer to her.
So near that I can see the coating the mint humbugs have left on her bottom lip.
The earth beneath me softens. I feel like myself, and a night breeze brings me into her.
Something that has had a vice grip on me lets go. And I kiss her.
Meeting her mouth, I feel I am the whole night. Each shade of its darkness, the gossamer stretch of cloud and every glossy star. She and I, a small nebula by the bins. Everything twinkling.
And even when she puts a space between us, and you make your way back into my thoughts, the earth remains soft. I remain solid. Not melting into a panic, not collapsing from guilt. I don’t merely feel fine. Rather, I feel alive. I think I had forgotten that I am still alive, and that I must live.
As she heads back inside, she turns to look at me. Teresa, by the light of a Saturday night. Reaching her hand out to me once more, bringing me back inside with her. All night, the stars outside tap on the windows, wanting to be let in. Wanting to be a part of me again.